


Written in your bones

by laliquey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Altruism, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-08-17 04:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: Arya misses her parents, hates school, and lives with a sister for whom the world seems designed.Not quite sure what to do with herself, she hangs out on the couch in pajamas until a spa gift card leads her to a secret vocation she hadn't known existed.





	1. Chapter 1

A little ping means the fun money's landed in Arya's account.

Not that there's anything much fun about it.

She rolls over on the couch to look at her phone, as if this time there might be something personal or extra, but there never is. She's always hopeful that dad set up other surprises and believes he would have, if he'd known just how little time he had left.

It's nearing noon but she lounges around for another hour, even though she's supposed to be in class. Her grades are going to be awful again and she'll have another winnerless shouting match with their trustee. How exhausting to loathe school and feel like such a failure at the same time...

Sansa's footsteps come up the stairs and through the door, and the scent of orange blossoms and vanilla arrive with her. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Mud colored hair and dirty pajamas versus this towering, glowing goddess. It's a wonder they're related at all.

"Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Didn't want to go."

"Ms. Tarth is going to kill you if you're on academic probation again." Sansa's not fond of her lackluster academic pursuits either and only going because it's expected, but why can't Arya just go through the motions and do the bare minimum, like she does? "It's because of the fun money, isn't it."

"No," she lies. "Did you spend yours?"

The red handbag that was last month's indulgence drops onto a chair. "I did, I got a creamsicle body polish at the spa. Which I realize sounds ridiculous, but you should try it."

"Pssh. No thanks." Once fencing lessons are paid for, there's nothing else Arya wants.

"It's so relaxing, though, and probably good for you."

"Nah. I don't need blueberry yogurt feet."

"What about a massage? You're always complaining that your shoulders are sore."

That's actually true. "I don't want anybody touching me naked."

"They cover up what they aren't working on, and anyway, you don't have to be naked. They give you a choice, too. I always have mine done by a lady."

"Still." It sounds unbearable, and she could never relax for such a thing. "Isn't it a little odd to pay somebody to touch you?"

"If you'd ever had one, you wouldn't say that."

Arya scowls and forgets all about it until the day Sansa gives her a funny, bitchy card with a mint green spa gift card tucked inside.

"What the hell is a chair massage?"

"They've got this thing. A chair, I guess, but you sit in it face-down with your clothes on. Big companies sometimes hire them for office workers who are on computers all day so it's perfectly normal and not naked. It's nice and I think you'll like it."

Later, online, Arya finds that the chair doesn't look like a chair at all. In fact it reminds her of that gross catalog of sex stuff that came to their flat once and she didn't know what half the things in it were for. But she books the appointment and tries not to be too skeptical, which is difficult because she is.

Sansa walked her through what to expect: the spa smells herbal, and yes, some of the girls wear a lot of makeup but it's flawless and everyone's pleasant and friendly. There are orchids on the front desk and a little tumbling water sculpture off to the side that sounds like pee, really.

_What a silly place._

Arya fills out a form and is led to a tranquil little room with a normal chair, the torture chair, and tea lights lining several narrow shelves. She eyes the room's ceiling and corners and feels like a murder suspect in the interrogation room waiting for life to get worse. Maybe there's a back door she can slip out, since the nice front desk girls will wonder why she's fleeing...

A soft knock and a swing of the door reveals the loveliest man she's ever seen in real life. "Hello, Arya. His hand is warm and dry. "I'm Jaqen."

She scrunches herself even smaller and both hands sneak up her sleeves like twin turtles. "Hi."

"And what brings you here today?"

Isn't it obvious? With that weird chair sitting there? "I've never done this before. In fact, I don't even really want to but my sister treated me so..."

"Are you nervous?"

"Very, and not fond of being touched in the first place so I can't see how this will even work."

He seems unoffended. "What else?"

"Well, there's always stuff in the news about some pervert massage therapist doing things they shouldn't. And you'd better not try anything with me because I'll break your arm."

He looks more amused than threatened. "And where have you learned this useful skill?"

"I've been doing martial arts since I was five."

"Very impressive."

"Thanks. I'm into fencing more lately, though. I like having an extension of my arm. It stretches me out further."

"It's a beautiful sport."

"It is. And I like being part of a team but also...by myself, if that makes sense."

"It does," he smiles gently. "What else do you like about it?"

"The uniform. Especially the mask."

"Really." His eyes widen. "Why?"

"Because in competition no one knows who I am. Boy, girl...no one knows."

"They only know that you have all the points."

She quite likes him. "Exactly."

"You must really feel it in your traps."

She's so taken with his eyes she can't recall where exactly those are. "I guess so."

"Well." He laces his fingers outward and pops his knuckles with a soft crunch. "We can give it a try or you're welcome to come back another time. Or perhaps your sister would rather-"

"No, it's okay. I'll do it."

"Excellent. Now, you're wearing a lot of rings, so..." He hands her a little ceramic dish from a side table. "Put those here, and do you have a hair elastic?"

On her wrist. Always. "Yes."

"Pull your hair up off your neck, if you don't mind."

He turns his back to fool with the new-agey music selection and dim the lighting even more; she's not sure how to navigate the goofy chair, so she waits, ringless and top-knotted.

"I don't know how this thing works," she says, and doesn't bristle at his touch when he guides her into the weird contraption. Knees and arms supported, face cradled in a cushy doughnut...it's actually quite fabulous once she's settled, like she's cheating gravity somehow.

He rests a light hand on her back for what feels like whole minutes, and barely moves it a bit lower. The other hand lifts to rest on her and finally his fingertips sink in to dig symmetrical whorls into her shoulders.

It takes her breath away. Over and over his hands carve lines into her thin t-shirt that are so intense she's not sure she could handle this on bare skin.

"Ah, you're left handed."

"How'd you know?"

"It's written in your bones."

"Hmm." The pressure's delicious and she loves that for now, she's got him all to herself. Not even pretty Sansa could have this because she always asks for women. What a lovely, stupid victory.

"Are we supposed to talk?"

"We can," he says, though for a long time neither of them do. Tracing the lines of her muscles, he zeroes in on a tight spot near her spine.

"How are you finding all my knots?"

"Have you ever helped your mother in the kitchen?"

She swallows hard. "No."

"Well, think about something you'd do by hand, like making bread. You learn to do it by feel."

"Oh." His thumb finds another little cluster and she bites back a squeal. "If I can handle this maybe I could work up to a real massage."

"Breathe," he reminds; the knot bursts and is swept away by the heel of his hand. "Are you saying this is not real?"

"You know what I mean. Up on the table half naked and all. Do you do those, too?"

"That's usually what I do."

"Maybe someday you can do it to me."

A light smile tints his voice. "It would be my pleasure."

"I'd say it would be mine."

"Says a girl who's not fond of being touched."

"Well, a girl's changed her mind."

They stop talking and she completely lets herself go, immersed in the low, ringing weave of the music. Jaqen warms rosemary cream in his hands and kneads out her arms and finds points in her hands that ping phantom twinges in her feet. Then he returns to where he started - one hand on her back, and she sighs, supposing that he's nearing the end.

He suddenly circles in on the planes of her left shoulder blade with both hands and finds something undiscovered on the first pass. She silently weeps as he holds her hand behind her back & is somehow able to get  _underneath_  the bone, and it's the juiciest, sweetest pain of her life.

The wet snuffle can't be hidden, and he stops, always keeping a hand on her, and tucks a tissue into the space between her thumb and forefinger.

"It's not you or anything you're doing, it feels great. I'm sorry." She awkwardly tries to use the tissue through the doughnut hole but ends up sitting back and dabbing at her eyes.

"Don't be sorry. It happens."

This should be too embarrassing for words but there's a safety here, a safety with him. "I never cry. Ever, you know?" She sobs quietly, but only once, and her shoulder gets a gentle squeeze. "This year's been really hard."

"And you're getting through it."

"I'm trying." She tries to smile after a moment of collecting herself. "Anyway, let's not waste another minute of this." She takes a deep breath, tips forward, and his unseen hand takes the tissue from hers.

He quiets her shoulder and works upward to the back of her skull, where thoughts come to her without effort: home, dad, mom, the feel of the Visconti grip in her left hand and smell of the mask when she's behind it. The confusion of feeling so solid in herself and yet completely lost at the same time.

Before tears creep up again, Jaqen downshifts to what she recognizes from online research as Swedish massage, which is more like what she'd expected: pleasant touch that doesn't brush up against any feelings. She's thankful for either and certain he's exceeded the pre-paid twenty minutes by quite a lot. Still, it's a shame when his touch lightens.

"Arya," his voice is low as a dark shadow. "Are you still with me?"

"Mmm hmm."

"I'm afraid it's the end of our time for now. I'll meet you outside but there's no rush, and take your time standing up. Take all the time you need."

"Okay. Thank you." She gradually extracts herself from the glorious contraption and sees how much of her eye pencil's now on the doughnut hole. But in a small carved-frame mirror by the little candles, she looks relaxed and dewy and not weepy at all.

She fans out a huge tip in the jewelry dish and tops it with a tiny strawberry eraser she's been carrying around since finding it abandoned behind the sugar on a coffee shop table. It's utterly stupid, but it might make him smile.

_It might make him remember me._

He's waiting for her in the hall and gives her a cup of cold water with a lemon slice trapped in an ice cube.

"I haven't felt this good in a long time," she confesses.

"Then you must come back."

"I will. Thank you."

"Try to drink a lot of water this afternoon."

"I will."

"Good." A wise set to his eyes suggest he knows far more about her than what she told him. "Until next time, Miss Arya." A gentle pat on the arm and he's gone, probably to some perfumed linen closet before turning the room over for the next lucky patron.

Every joint feels easy and oiled as she glides back to the front desk, and she's asked, "How was it?"

"Amazing." She surrenders the gift card and leans on the counter with both forearms, feeling pretty, like she deserves to be a customer of this place. "I'm not ready to make an appointment just yet but...I'd like to see him again."

"When you're ready, call well ahead because he keeps an odd schedule. Like downright bizarre."

"How so?" she asks, and the receptionist leans close, as if telling a secret.

"It's funny, but we don't actually know. He's very private."

Strange. "I'll call ahead, then. Thanks."

On the way home she finds herself looking around rather than down at the sidewalk; a few smiles from strangers are an interesting surprise.

_Water. He said to drink water._

The cup with lemon is still half full in her hand, but at a posh little market she wouldn't dream of entering even an hour ago she buys an expensive water for later and thinks about the man who put her in this state.

What exactly is his story, anyway?

Does he know he helped her tap into an old self, or perhaps one not yet awake?

His personal life's none of her business, but she wonders what accounts for the bizarre schedule. He's older, but it's possible he goes to school. Or maybe he has beautiful little children he tends at home, and it's completely selfish but she hopes not. 

Actually, he's probably a baker.

Yeah. A baker.

Whether it's true or not, that's what she decides to believe as she heads for home, feeling fresh and fortunate.  Sansa will be thanked up and down for her gift, though it may be impossible to articulate exactly why.

Whatever happened in that little candlelit room, it's a bell that can't be un-rung.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Arya's good feeling lasts for days, as if a subtle net of cobwebs has been swept off of her daily actions. She thinks of Jaqen rather often, but also _beyond_ him...to finally be open to another and then rewarded for it was an unexpected lesson, leading her to wonder what else has been needlessly avoided.

A test of her new buoyancy will be their quarterly meeting with Ms. Tarth. She's a nice lady who cares about the Stark girls beyond the stipend she's paid to, but there's been a simmering frustration on both sides lately. The girls can't seem to settle in and formulate true plans, and no amount of encouragement or support is changing that.

Ms. Tarth's office is in a formidable building with dark woods and an elevator clad in reflective copper. _Dad was once in this same box,_ Arya always thinks as they travel upward. _Alive and thinking about us._ Sansa is unaware of the competition but Arya always rushes to press the buttons in case an atom of him is still there.

Instead of the usual front desk person, Ms. Tarth greets them herself. It's always a fresh shock how tall she is.

"Good morning, girls."

"Hello," Sansa says, extending a polite hand. "Thanks again for taking care of the water damage last month. It was a good lesson in distraction and it won't happen again."

Her forgotten bathwater had given their downstairs neighbor a literal waterfall. "I should hope not," she says with a firm smile. "And how are you, Arya? How's fencing? Still fancy being an Olympian?"

That was a pretend goal invented to get her off her back about school. "It's okay."

"Well then. Let's get settled."

Her office is very much like her with tall windows that reflect her proportions, somehow, and butter yellow walls and a blue spun-glass paperweight that Arya stares into when she's bored. It's a Bristol Cream helix like an ocean. An escape.

"How are your studies, Sansa?"

"Grades are probably average or a little better, which is the best I can hope for," she says. "And I gave some thought to what you said last time. About how I should lean more academic because intro to ballet isn't doing anyone any good. You're right, of course, but right now I'm concentrating on being happy."

_Happy._

"I appreciate that, just as I'm sure your parents would. But I made them a promise that I'd-"

"Monitor our education and watch over us, I know. But I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I won't be much of a professional anything if I'm not happy. And right now," she blinks at the ceiling; this isn't an act. "I'm really not."

Ms. Tarth softens, but only a little. "And how are you working to change that?"

"Trying to sleep better. Doing things with friends."

"Such as?"

"I thought about asking a few out for lunch but I haven't yet. And there's a girl in my dance class who seems nice, so I might see if she'd be interested in being social."

"Hmm." It's a bit weak, though better than nothing.

"I had a massive breakthrough last week," Arya announces, thumbing toward her sister. "It's her fault, actually. She gifted me a chair massage and it was great. I wasn't afraid to be touched and I've been positive ever since, haven't I?"

Sansa nods. "For you, yes."

"I want to be happy, too. I'm bored with lying around and skipping class, really. I don't like being useless."

"Dear, no one thinks you're useless."

"Maybe not, but I haven't proven particularly use- _ful,_ yet. But I'd like to work on it."

"If I can help with that taking an actual shape, please let me know."

"I will. And I know we've talked about no expiration date on mourning, but even if our parents were still alive this would probably be a stupid time for us anyway. Seems like we're reaching a saturation point, though. Of stupidness." She smiles clumsily, knowing that it's effect will be only charm. "Aren't everyone's twenties terrible? Were yours?"

"Yes," Ms. Tarth admits. "And the current decade's no picnic, either."

"Well, there you go."

All three look around the triangle, slightly amazed; no meeting has ever gone like this. At least one sister ends up crying, and lately there have been disagreements and raised voices. This is far better, and Arya feels that the new calm has a color and that perhaps she coaxed it into room. "It won't happen overnight," she continues. "But we want the same thing you do, which is what mom and dad did. It's just going to take us some time."

Ms. Tarth smiles softly, with no teeth. "I suspect you're trying to camouflage your bad marks with that lovely speech, but I hope that you'll extend every effort in reaching for what we all want."

Arya smiles, too. "I will."

"Me too."

"Well, then." A quick glance at the brass clock; with no circular arguments, this has been the shortest meeting on record. "Thank you, ladies. Let's meet again in a few months and assess your progress. Expenses will continue to be paid invisibly from the Trust, and if any other needs crop up don't hesitate to call."

After goodbyes are said and they're back inside the elevator, Sansa speaks. "Nicely done."

"Thanks."

"You really have been more positive. I don't understand how twenty minutes at a spa could turn you around like that."

"I loved it," she says, and breaches a subject so sacred she can't believe she's saying it out loud. "Have you ever noticed a guy who works there?" _With ocean-eyes and a voice like the low hum of a racecar?_   "He's not very old but has a big streak of white through his hair."

"Hmm. I don't think so."

"Oh. Well he's amazing."

Sansa doesn't press for more detail and treats her to lunch at a chic Japanese restaurant on their way home. The little hot towels are marvelous and the gorgeous sushi platter is intimidating at first, but they take their time and talk beyond their usual polite roommate exchanges...which have always felt odd given all they've been through.

"I started out saying some of those things to make Ms. Tarth happy," Sansa confesses. "But I guess I meant it."

"Either way, it worked." Arya feels rather elegant with her chopsticks and plucks up another piece of spider roll. "Is the ballet girl real?"

"Yeah, and she seems fun. Likes to laugh and she's quite good at snarky comments."

"Well, I hope she's your new best friend."

"I hope your momentum continues, too."

"Thanks." All these little things that normal people do...eat raw fish. Get touched. Smile, now and then. "So do I."

***

It only takes two days for Sansa to make plans with her ballerina and she comes home from class with a breathless report. "Her name's Margaery and she's already a real dancer, but she's taking ballet to get more grace or something. She's a cage dancer at Fleur. The bar with the gilded cages hung from the ceiling."

Arya's heard of it, and its exorbitant cover charge and beautiful people. 

"You won't believe what she wants to do this weekend. She wants to go dancing there, just not in the cage. Isn't that funny?"

"Bit strange."

"Yes, but it's very _her._ And I was wondering if you had any interest in going, too." The rest tumbles out in a rush. "I'll pay to get you in and I'll buy all your drinks, I just want you there in case it doesn't go well. You can kick me if I say something stupid, or if she disappears with her other friends then at least I won't be alone."

The insecurity's so pitiful Arya has to say yes. And anyway, she's curious.

***

Saturday night, Sansa transforms into a nervous diva in emerald velvet that shows off her legs. Fretting over her appearance, she jumps at the knock at the door that's surely her ballet crush, while Arya watches from the couch, un-fussily wearing all black and a red plastic ring like a gumball.

Margaery is a lovely girl, loud and pretty and the whole atmosphere of the flat changes the moment she's in it. "Sansa darling! You look scrumptious." Cheek kisses and smiles commence, and Arya's helpless to fight the sincere look and warm press of her hand. "I'm so happy to meet you, Arya, and I know we'll have so much fun tonight."

After more last-minute fussing in front of mirrors they pack into a cab and get dropped off up front, where they sail past the velvet rope without paying. "I reserved us a table," Margaery says, leading them into the towering atrium of loud music and lights in every color.

Aya's expectations were sky-high and it's still overwhelming - the gilded cages are crusted with metal vines and roses, and they _move,_ slowly dropping and climbing cables hung from the high ceiling. The nearest one has a gold-plated girl spinning upside-down, suspended by one lithe leg. "That's really your job!?" she asks, shouting to be heard.

"It's crazy, isn't it? I don't do the ones with stripper poles, though, I just like to dance."

Wending their way through every variation humanity can offer, they pile into the plush booth saved for them and a bottle of pink champagne with three flutes appears without being ordered. It's sweet and slides down much too fast and a handful of Margaery's friends swing by to say hello. Sansa rises to the occasion nicely while Arya stays nicely invisible.

She'll probably get dragged out to dance, but she'd rather sit still and people-watch all night. It's fun how there's absolutely no dress code here. Blue wigs with tiaras, ripped t-shirts, and everything in-between. The bar's a massive crescent backlit by a slow-morphing kaleidoscope of flowers, and... 

_Oh my God, is that...Jaqen?_

He's behind the bar in a black t-shirt that shows off his arms, and the streak in his hair occasionally glows purple when kissed by an overhead blacklight. He moves efficiently and doesn't waste a single step, and rarely smiles while juggling the wants of so many people.

"Hey Margaery. That bartender on the end," Arya points. "I know him. Barely, I guess, but..."

"Oh, Jack? Jack's lovely!"

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not a lot, because I'm always up the cage while he's down here. But he's very sweet. He walks a lot of the girls to the train stop after their shifts."

"Hmm." Arya sips her champagne, glad for the new information but also discouraged he's exposed to beautiful women all the time.

"Why aren't we dancing?" Margaery asks suddenly, yanking a flushed and giggly Sansa by the hand. "You too, Arya. Come on."

"I'm fine." She smiles to prove it. "Really. I'd rather people-watch anyway, so I'll stay here and watch your stuff."

There's a little bit of fuss, but then she's given custody of two jeweled purses. The bass tickles the insides of her ears and she centers herself for a better view.

Jaqen makes drinks, three, sometimes four at a time. Every now and then, he collects a handful of his tips, travels down the bar to fetch clean glasses, and stuffs the money in the tip jars of co-workers who are too busy to notice.

It doesn't make any sense.

Next, he puts together a heavy tray of ice water in pint glasses, goes out into the melee, and comes back empty minutes later. Again he makes drinks, sheds money, and heads out onto the floor.

What the hell!?

Arya threads all three purses over her arm and takes a roundabout route to follow from an anonymous distance. She's she's jostled often from simply not being seen but manages to keep him in sight. He must have the core strength of a tree to hold that tray up over his head one-handed and still navigate the crowd without spilling a drop. 

He pauses here, there...and the common denominator of those he gives a glass to is sheer intoxication.

A weeping girl who keeps shouting, _"Fuck him!"_ while a sympathetic friend pats her arm.

Then three young men who are sloppy drunk and well past the point of having fun.

A sober security guard gets one, too, and then suddenly Jaqen turns, and in all the noise and mayhem, he sees her.

Her reflex is to run, but she blinks to make sure it's real. Yes. He's definitely seen her, and he's coming closer. Was he always this tall? Oh, God. What should she say? He's in front of her, waiting for her to say it.

"I want another appointment with you," she blurts.

It was the stupidest possible thing to say, but he seems amused. "When would you like it?"

Why does everything out of his mouth sound unreasonably seductive? Also, he has to be bluffing and she'll prove it. "Tomorrow."

"Name a time. Doors don't open till ten."

Wow, okay. "Noon. If that's not too early for you?"

"Noon's fine. See you then."

He turns to get back to work, and she shouts thanks but doubts he heard.

She ends up dancing with Sansa and Margaery the rest of the night, but mostly behind a pillar where he won't see her flailing around like an idiot. At home, after all the fun and late night diner breakfast with Margaery, Sansa thanks her for coming along with a big hug and it feels so, so good.

***

The next morning, the appointment thing seems like an unlikely dream and Arya half expects to show up and they won't find her in the computer. But Jaqen's there, waiting.

Her mouth floods at the sight of him and for the first time she notices the slight asymmetry in his face which is somehow better than if he were perfect.

"I hope your night ended well."

"Same to you."

"What are we working on today? Left shoulder? Everything?"

She actually researched it this morning, while waiting for her DIY pedicure to dry. "Foot reflexology, if you're willing."

"I am."

He leads her down the hall to a softly lit room that smells like sandalwood. "I know a tattoo artist who doesn't do feet," she says. "So I thought other professionals might have feelings about it, too."

"Not this one." He dials the lights down lower while she sheds her shoes. "Too much dancing last night?"

"Nah, I figure it's a good way to get the full body experience without getting undressed."

He smiles, but looks her over clinically. "Roll up your jeans as far as you can, please."

He drags a step-stool over and arranges her face down on the massage table. A trickle of music touches her ear and he wraps both her feet in hot towels, then picks one up and gently wrings it as if it's a dishrag. Once it starts to cool, he puts it aside and slathers cream all over her foot, which tickles at first and soon becomes a thing she can't live without.

"What nice little strawberry toes."

The dots had been a bitch to paint, but him noticing is all she ever wanted. "Did you like the strawberry eraser I tipped you last time?" He digs into her instep and she senses a smile.

"That was you, wasn't it."

"It was so great I had to really thank you."

"And what are you leaving me today? Banana stickers? A water tattoo?"

"Probably just money."

"Well, last time was far too much. Such extravagance isn't necessary."

"I thought you could use it on something fun. Take your girlfriend out or something."

"I haven't got one to take out," he says, pushing his thumb along the thread that lines the bottom of her foot. "I probably spent it on doppelbock."

Well, that's encouraging.

He silently works on her left foot, and she holds her breath now and then because it feels so good there's something almost sexual about it. But then he backs off to where she can speak without moans dragging down the edge of every word.

"I saw you give away all your tips last night," she says softly. "Who does that?"

"I do."

"It's funny. I had this random idea that you were a baker."

"I am."

"How?" It's a shock to be right. "Why?"

"It might be easiest to show you, but you'd have to spend an entire afternoon with me and that's a lot to ask considering we barely know each other."

This is said with fingers woven in-between her toes, which plenty of people who've fucked each other probably haven't done. "I want to. I'm not afraid."

"Ah, that's right. You could break both my arms," he says, then deprives her of his touch to get a cream refill in the palm of his hand. After that, the subject disappears, as if the quasi-invitation never happened at all.

"How's fencing?"

She sighs. "It's funny, but in the past week or so I've cared about it less. I still love it, but it feels sort of...empty."

He continues working and doesn't comment. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but Arya fills it anyway. Might as well. She's paying for this and he's a good listener. A good everything, probably.

"I'm going to school. Well, failing out, probably, but I have no idea what I want to do with my life. It's not like fencing pays money, and it seems sort of vain to keep showing up and kicking people's asses. Like...why?"

"How would you have answered that question a month ago?"

It's odd to think back. She was so much smaller than. Sadder. "I don't know."

He moves up to wrap hands around the ticklish ball of her calf muscle. "You'll figure it out."

She groans and wonders what a massage is like for people who aren't so closed off that every touch on skin is like the earth moves, though much of it may be Jaqen himself. Tons of people probably think they have a connection with him 'cause he's hot as hell, and maybe they do. Maybe he's this intuitive and generous with everyone.

"I'm glad I ran into you last night," she says softly.

"So am I."

"I love coming here."

"Good."

The remainder of their time is wordless - a thorough work-over of one side followed by the other, her bones shifting agreeably in his strong hands. He's giving her extra though it feels like less than the first time, and to her dismay, it eventually winds down and comes to an end.

"That's our time for now," he says. "Please take your time getting up."

He leaves her alone, and after rolling her jeans down and standing back down on the floor with fresh feet, she looks in the mirror on the wall and again likes what she sees: wide, pretty eyes and a slight smile, like she's tapped into some Mona Lisa secret no one else knows. And even though he told her not to, she fans out another giant tip.

Jaqen's not outside the door with lemon water as expected so she loiters a moment, and then again at the front desk, hemming and hawing about whether to schedule another appointment. And still he doesn't come. He hydrates and entire bar of drunks but leaves her dry as sand.

It's an unexpected hurt as she steps outside, which is ridiculous because she's just a customer to him. One of many - at the spa, at Fleur.  And wherever he's baking, too.

_Arya._

She wonders where the bakery is, and if they have good coffee and if it would be too obnoxious to...go there.

"Arya! I'm sorry you had to wait. Here."

He's brought her lemon water, and his eyes are so blue out here in the natural light that her heart flips and every pinch of doubt disappears.

"Thank you."

"I tried to hurry but there was an...incident."

"Oh?"

His voice drops lower for drama. "A citrus incident," he says, and she's too caught off guard to ask what the hell that means, but takes a coy sip and hopes she looks cute.

"Thanks for chasing me down."

"Of course. And..."

He slips a folded note into her free hand, which she unfolds with her thumb expecting a receipt but it's not. Not at all. 

_It's his address_

"If you like, come over at noon on Saturday. Don't bring anything or do anything special, just be yourself. And one more thing."

He stealthily tucks her tip money alongside the note, and ducks back inside so fast she can't return it.

She's too stunned to move except for the smile that's about to split her face in half, and the taste of lemon fills her like sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, anon, for the encouragement. It is appreciated! :)

Late Saturday morning Arya dons the outfit carefully planned all week: a striped fisherman's sweater with jeans. A red vinyl backpack purse flaking from cheapness is the cherry on top of her low-effort ensemble.

By contrast, Sansa's still in pajamas and still upset over last night's argument with Margaery. Something about cancelled plans and hurt feelings, and Arya gets a tug of guilt as her arms twist into her little red knapsack. It's highly unusual to be going out while the pretty one stays home.

Sansa looks at her, porcelain and pouty. "Where are you off to?"

"Meeting a friend." Ugh, probably shouldn't have said that. "What's up with you and Margaery?"

"Not sure. I sort of made an ass of myself last night."

"Maybe blame it on being tired and try again."

"Actually..." She springs up, disappears into the bedroom, and returns with a box of fine stationery. It had been hard, necessary work, but everyone who sent condolences for their parents got a handwritten note expressing her gratitude.

Arya had only signed her name, nothing more. "Why don't you just text her?"

"Because a formal note means far more and this paper's gorgeous." She's not wrong; the envelopes are lined with a floral print and Margaery will probably love that.

***

Arya finds that Jaqen lives in a neighborhood not quite as nice as hers. His building's old, with some trimmings to make it interesting but even at its best, it was never posh. The glass-paned double doors are locked so she buzzes the number he gave her. "It's me," she announces, and when the doors click open, she ascends the stairs to find him.

It smells like heaven the closer she gets - big and buttery and rich. On the third floor, a slice of light marks his propped-open door, and her heart clutches as she nears.

The front door opens into his kitchen, which is small and cluttered with bowls and spoons. That she's here at all is so intense she can only look at the checkered linoleum floor at first. "It smells good all the way downstairs."

"Good. It's nice to see you." He's at the counter stretching a ball of dough into a disk and a smudge of flour dusts the hem of his black t-shirt, which she'd about kill to brush off of him. "Hope you didn't have any trouble finding it."

"No. It was easy."

"I already got started, but get settled and jump in."

"Okay." Shaking herself out of the backpack, she doesn't see an open surface to set it on. A commercial stand mixer from another century takes up a good amount of floor space, and what's left of the kitchen is so small he's using an old wooden chair for an unbaked sheet pan of rolls.

The adjacent space, which she expects to be a living room, has a duvet-covered mattress on the floor with a low table and bookshelves. A tiny window emits a dismal amount of outside light, and a glint of white tile off to the side suggests a bathroom, so the other door must be a closet. Even her brokest friend doesn't have a studio apartment, but Jaqen mustn't mind, otherwise he wouldn't be giving away all his tip money.

She sets her purse on his bed and returns to the kitchen, looking at him full-on now. "I hope you're not wanting too much help with this," she says, and starts washing her hands. "I can barely boil an egg."

"You'll be in charge of the egg wash, then." With a flattened piece of dough in his left hand, he slaps a quick spoonful of something in the middle and wraps around it with a series of little pulls and pinches.

"What's in it?"

"Herbed cheese and olives. Roasted peppers and a few other things."

"Yum."

He tucks the seam underneath and places it on a big buttered baking sheet, and another round comes to life in his hands. Over and over it happens, movements that look random are actually repeated and precisely the same.

"So what's all this for?"

"You'll see. When the timer goes off we'll take some out of the oven, and the one sitting on that chair goes in. After the mandatory egg wash, of course."

"Of course."

"Do you want to try making a few?"

"Probably shouldn't. Mine won't be as pretty as yours," she says, and a few minutes later she's stretching out a lump and tearing holes in it. "Ugh, why won't it cooperate? It's like it senses fear!"

He smiles. "Use a light touch and don't think about it too much."

"Says the man who's probably made thousands." It's way too hot in the cramped space and she feels her underarms spring to life...the dough holes are patchable, but then the filling escapes and it's covered in oily herbs. What a disaster.

A shrill little bell rings out - at first it's not clear where it's coming from, but she sees two egg timers in the countertop mess, one white plastic and a vintage one shaped like a beehive.

"I'll get it." She gladly abandons her bun and gasps at the hot air that slams her face when opening the oven. Glorious rows of shiny golden rolls wait inside, and she trades it for the tray of pale ones on the chair. "Oh, shit-" Her only job. A measuring cup with a brush sits on the counter's edge, and she manages to hold the pan in one hand and hit each bun with a swirl of egg wash with the other.

It's a triumph once they're in and Jaqen pauses to dial up the beehive timer.

A rhythm builds between them - shape, rise, bake, cool, and it becomes so hypnotic they work without speaking. Arya bags up the finished ones in brown waxed paper bags, puts a crisp fold on top, and then Jaqen carefully arranges them in a big canvas bag like newspaper boys carry in the movies. There's a smaller, newer one for her to put on, and  when both are full they walk down the stairs and out into his neighborhood. He doesn't say anything and she doesn't ask.

Most ground-level apartments and all the area businesses have wrought iron caging the windows, and the further they walk, the thicker it gets. Gutters are garbage-strewn, and more than once Arya smells awful things without seeing the actual evidence.

They come to an alley lined with cardboard shelters, tarps, tents...she's never seen such a place up close or on foot and her pulse quickens a little. A huge man wearing at least two dirty coats sees Jaqen and shuffles over to greet him.

"Hey, Bread Jesus!" He pulls him into a handshake and one-armed hug.

Jaqen play-frowns. "You know I'd rather you didn't call me that, James."

"Too late, Bread Jesus. Ah, you know I'm just givin' ya shit!" He takes one of the waxed paper bags, smells, and smiles. "Mm, still warm. Thanks, man."

Arya follows as he slowly walks down the line, giving the paper sacks to everyone who wants one.

People of all sorts appear out of the tents and low shelters. Jaqen gets lots of hugs, and she gets a few, too. She even gets a braided string bracelet from an older woman with one milky eye. "I made it for him but you can have it," she says, trading it for the little brown bag.

"It's lovely. Thanks very much."

Her heart feels tight when she serves two wide-eyed children and their mother, and she's ashamed that she ever gets upset over petty things when she's got all of her limbs and teeth and a home she doesn't even pay for. Some of it's smelly and much of it's sad but she keeps moving, smiling, and being friendly when she can.

"Wow, what a great hat," she tells the man with the magenta cap.

"You're damn right, young lady, and I made it myself. No law that men can't knit. So what do we got today, is it that good roast chicken I like?"

"It's olives and cheese and roasted peppers."

"Oo, that's a good one, too. Thank you, miss. God bless."

As they progress down the alley, she frets about how much remains in her bag, but when the last one's gone she looks to Jaqen, who's just giving away his last one, too. He looks content and unsurprised that the math has all been perfect.

She follows his lead out of the alley and onto a neutral street, feeling exhilarated.

"How often do you do that?"

"Twice a week, sometimes more." A bicyclist who shouldn't be on the sidewalk separates them for a moment. "Everyone deserves something nice to eat."

They settle back into their rhythm and she thinks of his bar work. Keeping people safe, sharing what he has, protecting women. "Is everything you do altruistic?"

"Not all. But I try for as much as I can."

It explains his strange schedule. "What else do you do?"

"Work at a hospice."

 _He cannot be real._ "Do you have a medical background, or-"

"I spend time with those who have no one. And play piano sometimes, but I only know about twenty minutes of music so please don't be impressed."

It's much too late for that, and they wait at a crosswalk for the flow to swing their way. She looks up at him. Tall and so handsome it's almost otherworldly...and then he does all that stuff on top of it? Really? He's got to be some percentage non-human. He could be part angel, which might explain the streak in his hair. "Why do you work at the spa?"

"To help those who need it. Like you." He raises a brow wryly. "You needed it."

True. "But how did you know?"

"It was so obvious. The way you carried yourself-"

"No, before. If you're so busy, how'd you know to work the day I came in?"

He slouches and stuffs hands in pockets. "I just did."

"That's a lie."

The light changes and he resumes walking, taking a playful whack on the arm.

"Come on! Tell me how you knew."

"No. It's highly personal."

"You've put yourself pretty far into my life, so our definition of personal isn't normal."

It's so true he doesn't respond.

"Tell me tell me tell me," she sing-songs.

"Fine," he groans. "But I need to think about how."

It's a weird thing to say, but perhaps not so strange for him.

***

Back at his flat, the oven opens with a deep squeak and two still-warm rolls rest inside; Jaqen takes a beer from the fridge and holds the door open so Arya can get hers.

They lean against the counter, taking bites between swigs. It's beyond delicious.

"Someone mentioned roast chicken," she remembers. "What other kinds do you make?"

"Roast chicken with herbs, and whatever else I've got to make it interesting. I did ham with haloumi cheese and peaches last fall."

"Sounds weird but good."

"It was. Thank you for the help today."

"Thanks for inviting me." It's greedy but she could eat about five rolls by herself, and she's comfortable enough to not care there's a big wad in her mouth when she asks, "So, you were gonna explain something to me?"

The set of his shoulders implies he'd rather not. "If I do, you mustn't speak about it outside of you and I."

"I won't."

He reaches inside a cupboard and pulls out a bottle half full of a pink liquid with more viscosity than water, unlabeled. "It starts here." He uncaps it and inhales, then tips it toward her nose. One sniff fills her with a scent like flowers and medicine.

"A drink of this turns into sleep but deeper, with dreams, but more detailed." His voice lowers and wraps around her like a dream itself as she inhales again. It's more perfumey now, stacked in soft layers she can't name. "It unrolls like a map of what to do, and I go where I'm needed." She leans closer to the bottle, so close her breast's pressed up against his arm and somehow it's the least important thing happening.

"There were three or four places we might've gone today, but we went where it would do the most good. This is how I knew."

"I want to try it."

He takes it back. "Not today. Give it some thought and make sure it's what you want."

"There's very little occupying my life right now, so-"

"No." He's not unfriendly, but firm. "I insist you think it over."

"If I do it once am I locked in forever?"

"I don't know, but that's how it was for me."

He starts stacking dishes to be washed, then a flutter of sound interrupts and he looks down at his phone. "It's work. Sorry, but I need to take this." His voice drops low and he moves to the other room. "Yes, of course I will. How long do you think?"

His side of the conversation tapers down so the words can't really be heard, and Arya takes the mystery bottle out and tilts it to watch the pink's consistency cling to the sides again. The scent's even better than bread and she can't believe she's in this gorgeous man's apartment with his pretty secret laid out for her. Not only that, it's the answer to what's plagued her. It's everything she wants.

Curious what other interesting items might live in the cupboard, she finds a heavy shot glass next to where the bottle was. If he needs that much to fall asleep, a little taste won't hurt anything. Not even a sip, just a touch, like knowing what lipgloss tastes like without ever touching the wand to your tongue...

It's sweet as a liquid valentine and she re-caps and puts it away, but then a sound like the earth breaking apart shakes her entire body. The cupboard's front rips off its hinges and crashes to the floor, twisting her arm because her fingers still clutch the handle. She stumbles trying to stand, then crawls on her elbows before giving up, panting against the floor.

Jaqen rushes to her with eyes so wide it's frightening, and it feels like a rope around her waist is dragging her underwater.

She's still, very still to not panic and the dream starts to take shape. She's somehow lying back in the alley, face-down with all the unpleasant smells. The people aren't the ones she just met and her eyes search for Jaqen or any familiarity, but then Sansa walks past, pausing and turning on long ivory legs, but her usual sadness prevents any recognition or smile.

It's not a picture but more a hazy feeling - Jaqen's hands all over that pale skin and their hair bleeding together like rust, and it makes all the sense in the world. Sansa is beautiful, Jaqen is beautiful. Sansa is lonely, Jaqen could fix that. He'll certainly never want Arya, and a repetitive voice washes over her like waves, _not you, not you, never you, never._

The rest is a nauseating swirl of ugly colors, but it starts to break up until it's mostly white and pushing her upward, as if surfacing from a lake. But the awful assignment is still there.

_I can't._

Her own whimper wakes her and it feels like she's in Jaqen's bed, though not in a good way.

He's standing over her with his arms crossed, and so angry he isn't even handsome anymore. "I said not to."

A dry croak is the only sound she can make.

"You didn't like what you saw, did you. There's a proper way to go under and you didn't. That's why it wasn't good. Because you're not ready."

Trying to sit up brings pain in every muscle and she cringes. "I'm sorry."

"I've never shown anyone what I do. And it takes patience that you clearly don't have."

Tears sting her eyes. "I only wanted a taste."

"Wanting isn't always getting." He doesn't help as she struggles to get up. "There's a car waiting outside for you, and your ride home's paid for."

The tears are real now and she's holding a lot more back...this can't all be her fault. He's at least half of every situation they've ever been in. "It never made sense that you were so nice to me. Why'd you even bother inviting me over?"

"Because I like spending time with you and thought you might find today rewarding. I only showed you the bottle because you weren't going to stop asking. Were you."

Of course not. "But-"

"I'm not rehashing this with you, Arya, I got called in to work and I'm already late." he says sternly, but softens when one slow sob escapes her, repeating, "I've never shown anyone what I do, and I didn't expect it to be this way. Come on."

She takes his offered hand and he leads her to the stairs, holding her by the waist but then the only way to stop her from tumbling down them is by hoisting her up off her jelly legs carrying her the rest of the way. This should be bliss, carried like a baby up against the softness of his t-shirt but he might as well be a pillar of stone.

She's deposited in the back of the car with as much affection as a potted plant, and he bends to tell the driver, "I'm afraid I don't know where she lives."

"Miss? Do you know where we're going?"

She provides her address and Jaqen closes the door unceremoniously, heading back into the building without looking back.

The driver meets her eye in the rearview mirror. "Miss? I know it's none of my business, but did that man do something to you?"

"No."

"Because if you need to report something..."

Great. Now this stranger thinks awful things that aren't true. "I don't. He's got every reason to upset with me. Thanks for asking, though."

"Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yeah."

The car glides away and the driver's eyes keep checking on her in the mirror. It's a sullen ride home, and the driver reminds her the fare's been paid.

She digs for money anyway. Her purse is a mess inside, and a few vinyl flakes break away and cling to her jeans. "You've been so nice, I..."

"Tip's paid, too, and I'm going to keep his information and your address, just in case."

"I promise it's not necessary. But thank you."

She trudges upstairs. To her great relief, Sansa's gone but a little pink nosegay's on their table with a little florist's card and torn envelope.

 

_To my Most Immaculate Sansa:_

_Get ready, love. We may not've had fun last night, but we will have fun today! _

_XOXO_

_-M.  
_

 

Next to it, another ripped envelope and a note dashed on their formal stationery.

 

_Dearest Margaery,_

_Thank you, you glorious bitch!_

_XXX_

_Sansa_

 

God, even Sansa has a friend.

It's selfish and stupid after everything she's seen today, but a deep cry grips her ribs and she lets it flow because no one can hear. School is such a distant joke there's no salvaging the term even if she wanted to, and the worried texts from her fencing coach stopped once Sansa ran into him on the street and told him yes, Arya is still alive and no, she doesn't seem motivated to come back just now. Maybe she can convince Sansa to convince Ms. Tarth that she's doing some extensive travel and just sort of...disappear. But there isn't a single place she wants to go.

It was stupid to hang her future on someone else, but he'd been a toe-hold in something better and she completely fucked it up. Even now she's made him late for work and what if it's the hospice and he's missing a death that he should be there for? She really needs to get her act together. Parental advice obviously can't happen. Sansa's the closest thing she has to a good example now, and...well, she knows what Sansa would do.

She drags herself over to the table, pulls a blank note card from the stationery box, and starts to write.

 

 

_Dear Jaqen,_

_I hope our friendship can continue, though I'll understand if it can't._

_The afternoon with you was unlike anything I've ever done._

_Our limited time together makes me feel smarter, taller, better,_  
_and to have that much of it all at once made me ridiculous and_  
_thoughtless._

_I'm so sorry. Please forgive me._

_Your friend,_

_A._

  
She seals the envelope and is still for a moment. If he doesn't respond...then at least she knows.

She completes a series of little domestic things that a person who needs to heal might do. It feels like she's following shallow tips from a magazine, but it really does help to take off her bra and put on a sloppy sweater. Sansa's fancy face products are a fragrant treat to wash off tear-smeared makeup, and she sorts long-overdue laundry and waits. Hopes.

The laughter is audible before footsteps and her heart pounds. Closer, closer...

"I'm paying next time."

"No you aren't!"

"Don't fight with me, darling. You'll lose."

Sansa and Margaery burst through the door, each with a little foil shopping bag and the exact same shade of lipstick.

"Oh, Arya! Aren't you a fresh-scrubbed little cherub."

It's a ridiculous compliment but she needs it. "And you're a long stemmed rose."

"Oh, darling. That's the best thing anyone's ever called me," Margaery says, and genuinely seems to mean it. Sansa disappears into the bathroom and Arya hands over her envelope.

"Would you please give this to Jack the next time you see him?"

"I will. I think we're both on late tonight."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

***

Over the next few days, Arya is kind to herself: has a good couple of fencing workouts that leave her sore, does a major closet purge and donates everything, and thinks a lot about how lucky she is, having so much comfort and freedom that many don't. She doesn't need Jaqen to do good, though she'd rather do it alongside him. She could learn to bake, donate blood...anything, really. It's unclear what direction to steer this fledgling momentum, but she devotes a lot of thought to what might make mom and dad proud.

Jaqen's answer comes three days later, addressed in careful writing and delivered by Margaery:

 

_Arya,_

_I'm sorry, too._

_Let's start over. Come over Sat. @ 10, if you like._

_J._

 

She doesn't plan an outfit, doesn't plan anything, and heads back to his apartment Saturday morning completely stripped-down. No makeup, no cherry on top. Just Arya.

He waits on the other side of the entryway glass and biting his bottom lip. It can't be possible he's nervous too, but he smiles when he sees her and swings the door open.

"Hello."

"Good morning." Strong arms wrap her in the most thorough hug she's had in ages and his amber voice rumbles against her chest, her ear. "I'm so sorry, I never should've spoken to you that way. The look on your face...when I put you in the car..."

"It's alright. I'm fine, and I'm sorry, too. I hope you weren't too late for work."

"It was fine." His hold loosens but he kisses her forehead before they part. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Well, we have to undo last time."

"Yes." He smiles. "Yes, we do."

As they ascend the stairs, the heady excitement of being near him starts building all over again. She's missed his quiet weirdness. She's missed his face, that strong nose and those eyes.

"And how was your week?" he asks.

"Stupid! I was sad for a lot of it."

"Well that stops now."

"Yes. Definitely."

His kitchen's perfumed with a different golden scent this time, from a trio of crispy chickens cooling on the counter. She wants to prove more helpful with this second chance, and turns on the tap to wash her hands. "Do we start pulling by the meat off these, then?"

"Not yet." He tips a generous pour from the bottle she's obsessed over all week and nudges her toward the other room. He sinks to sit in bed with his back to the wall and pats the space next to him. "Come. Sit."

It's unreal that she's sitting in his bed, and he sets the glass on a nearby book and tweaks the pillows behind them to make it more comfortable. Once settled, he reaches to hold her hand.

"The day we met," he begins. "I hoped to help you get your light back, nothing more. But then, with time, it felt like a part of you was stretching toward service. Like you were made for it."

She's never forgotten what he said about left handedness. "Written in my bones?"

"Just so." His thumb traces ovals on the back of her hand. "I probably built it up on my own head and wanted it too much, but then I was too protective about it at the same time and I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as me. I get all wound up around you." She remembers how common ground and honesty worked on Ms. Tarth. "Did you do stupid things in your twenties, too?"

A subtle head shake. "I did unforgivable things."

"Well there you go."

He squeezes her hand and reaches over for the glass. "Alright. I'll have mine and you'll drink the rest, but first you need to empty your head. Completely. Sometimes it helps to think of a shell, winding further and further in, never reaching the end. Just a spiral that you're inside."

"Mmm." She tests it out with closed eyes; her shell is pearly and pink, every iridescent chamber fading behind as she passes. She feels him tip back and then he fits the glass into her hand.

It's overwhelming on her tongue, and again there's the feeling of being pulled down only it's smoother this time, softer. At first it feels like sleep, but then the neighborhood opens up to her like cinema and she's being swept up over the city from the air, like the view a drone. There's Jaqen's building and the nearby park...floating further downtown and then down upon another tent city wedged against a fenced park she never knew was there. An acridity spikes the air and pain is palpable - grief, confusion, despair. She sees dozens of faces, colors, even details of fabrics. There are children again - more, actually, and more parents threadbare from worry. Bread won't fix any of this, but it certainly won't hurt.

As before, the colors change and there's a sensation of surfacing upward; she wakes up much the way she went under, slumped against Jaqen's shoulder. Every limb feels heavy and her neck's stiff, but her mind's like a soft pink hangover of goodness. The changed sunlight from the tiny window suggests they were out for longer than she might've guessed.

Jaqen's awake, too. "Did you see?"

"I did."

"Shall we?"

"Yes."

"Good." He stretches his arms out and yawns. "You should consider whether you'd like an assignment of your own someday."

"I already know I do." She bravely adds, "Not just saying it to get in bed with you, either."

"Wicked girl." He shakes his head with a filtered smile she can't quite read, then rolls out of bed and pulls her up to stand.

"Wait. Please." She wraps her arms around his waist and rests her ear over his heart. He has to understand just how much all of this means to her. Maybe he dreamed it. Maybe he already knows.

She hangs onto him a little too long, but he tousles her hair and doesn't seem to mind.


End file.
